The Lies That Bind(43)

“You must be Cecily?” she says, speaking first.

I nod, as her dog continues to bark. She tries to shush her, but it doesn’t work, so she stoops down and scoops her into her arms. “Yes. Hi. I’m Cecily Gardner,” I say. “And you’re Amy?”

She nods, shifting the dog, extending her arm. I shake her hand, her palm cool in my clammy one.

    “It’s nice to meet you,” I say, my stomach in knots. “I wish it were under different circumstances….I’m so sorry.”

She nods without speaking, looking so fragile. It doesn’t help that her dog is staring at me with a mournful expression of her own.

“Thank you for agreeing to talk to me,” I say, wondering how I will ever be able to find the courage to tell her the truth.

“No. Thank you,” she says as I make eye contact with her dog again.

“She’s cute,” I say, stalling, reaching out toward her, letting her sniff my hand before petting her silky head. “What’s her name?”

She tells me it’s Tony.

“Oh, he’s a boy,” I say.

“No, no,” she says. “You had it right. She’s a girl. It’s Toni with an i. As in Morrison.”

“Ah,” I say, feeling even sicker as I recall the copy of Beloved I saw in Grant’s cabin.

I wait for her to say something more, but she doesn’t. So I clear my throat and gently ask if I can come in.

“Oh, yes. Of course,” she says. “Sorry…I’m a little out of it these days….”

“That’s understandable,” I say as she turns and leads me through the foyer and into a bright, spacious living room with elaborate crown molding, a high ceiling, and classic but still hip décor. On the walls hang beautiful paintings of nudes and seascapes.

He had everything, I think. A beautiful wife, a stunning home, a cute dog—and yet he still had an affair with me. Why? It just doesn’t make any sense.

“I’m sorry it’s such a mess.” Amy says, as Toni hops up onto one of the chairs and continues to inspect me.

“It’s lovely,” I say, thinking that it’s hardly a mess, just comfortably cluttered with books and newspapers (including this week’s Mercury), along with a few empty glasses strewn across the coffee table.

    She thanks me, then asks if I’m hungry. “Friends have brought so much food….I can’t possibly eat it all.”

“No, thank you,” I say. “I just had lunch.”

“What about something to drink? Coffee? Tea? Water? I think we have some cranberry juice….”

We.

I know she’s only talking about the contents of a refrigerator, but it still overwhelms me, and I am certain in that moment that he belonged to her. Never to me. He was her husband.

I open my mouth to tell her a glass of water would be great as she continues, “Or how about some chardonnay?…It’s five o’clock somewhere, right?”

The Jimmy Buffett reference feels odd given the circumstances, but in a way that makes me warm to her. I smile, then say, “Thank you, but I really shouldn’t….”

“Oh, come on,” she says. “No one’s following the rules right now.”

I hesitate, then nod, thinking that it’s possibly the only way I’ll get through this conversation. “Okay. Thank you.”

“Be right back,” she says, looking slightly more relaxed.

I nod and force a smile, then watch as she gracefully turns and leaves the room, Toni scampering after her. Once alone, I exhale, feeling my shoulders slump as I glance around, quickly searching for photographs or other traces of Grant. I find nothing, a source of simultaneous relief and frustration. I tell myself I will have answers soon enough as I sit down on the edge of the sofa, then pull from my tote bag a small notebook, two mechanical pencils, and my handheld recorder, placing them all on the coffee table. I rearrange them, then run my hands over the smooth leather of the sofa. I take a breath, close my eyes, then open them.

A moment later, Amy returns, carrying two stemless glasses of wine. She hands me one, and I take it from her and thank her. Liquid courage, I tell myself, as she sits down beside me. As Toni jumps up between us, I take a sip. The wine is crisp and cold, and feels like it’s directly entering my bloodstream. “I typically don’t drink on the job, but—” I feel the need to say.

    “Nothing is typical about any of this,” Amy says, taking a sip, too.

“True,” I say, feeling the weight of her statement.

I take another small sip, then reach for a coaster on the table.

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” she says, waving it off.

I take it anyway, putting down my glass, stalling a few more seconds before I force myself to meet her gaze, clear my throat, and summon all my strength to begin the hardest conversation of my life.

But in the next beat, I chicken out, hearing myself say, “So. Again. I’m working on features about the people who lost their lives…as well as the surviving family members….”

She nods, her eyes instantly welling with tears.

“I’m sorry. I know this is really hard…” I say, as an intense wave of grief washes over me. Worried that I may start to cry myself, I take another breath, then offer an out for both of us. “If you’re not up to it—we could postpone?”